


One of a Kind

by Unforth



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Figure Skating Eric Bittle, Figure Skating Jack Zimmerman, I don't know how to tag this, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, figure skating
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-22
Updated: 2016-11-22
Packaged: 2018-09-01 12:08:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8623945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unforth/pseuds/Unforth
Summary: What Bitty needs is a dose of confidence, a knee that doesn't sometimes give out on him, a coach that believes in him, friends that push him, and a clean artistic program.What Bitty *doesn't* need is his coach telling him he might be better of as part of a pair instead of skating single, and he definitely doesn't need some gorgeous former hockey player with issues of his own cluttering up his ice.Sometimes, Bitty doesn't get what he needs.(NOT a Cutting Edge AU, lol...)RATING SUBJECT TO CHANGE.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Okay. Wow. My first non-SPN fanfic story (...I don't count the Lost Generation). I've had this idea for a Check, Please! fic kicking around in my head for a while. I'm not that deep in the CP fandom but the fics I've read are all either canon-verse (or, at least, they were in canon when they were written, before getting Jossed) or are AUs where either:  
> a. Neither Jack nor Bitty are involved in skating - a complete AU.  
> b. Jack is a famous hockey player and Bitty is...something else.  
> And honestly, it bugged me. Why doesn't Bitty get to be successful as an athlete? He's clearly a phenomenal one. He's on a well-reputed hockey team, he was a figure skater before that, his complaints about early training mornings aren't "my body aches" it's "who wakes up this early?" He is a fricken *badass* and I wanted a fic that reflected that, and I haven't been able to find that. 
> 
> Note: I am in no way claiming that what I've written is New And Groundbreaking. I'm SURE it's not. I'm not that deep in the CP fandom, I've only read a couple dozen fics, and I couldn't even tell you who the big fic authors are or what the most popular fics are. I'm a dilettante. And I wanted a fic like this, and when I didn't find one within maybe 30 minutes of looking, I decided screw it, I'd just write my own.
> 
> So, to clarify, the premise here is pretty much just a reversal of Bitty and Jack's roles, and of their friends circles. So Bitty is still a figure skater, and a moderately successful one - a B+ lister who, on a good day, can make the A list and succeed but on a bad day, doesn't make the cut. The Samwell Hockey folks are recast as the friends who surround Bitty at the rink where he trains. And Jack is the new arrival who doesn't quiiiiiiiite fit in.
> 
> I am currently buried in Supernatural Megabang hell, 64,000 words into a fic that has to be a minimum of 100,000 words long and won't post til July but that I have to get done quickly for other reasons. This 1500 word what-not was my reprieve from that. I definitely have plans for more (...and I promise it's not going where it looks like it's going based on this first snippet...) but don't expect anything any time soon. I have absolutely no idea when I'll get back to this but I doubt it'll be imminently.
> 
> If you're reading this and you're from my usual Destiel bunch...don't worry, I'm not going anywhere, I've got loads still to write for Dean and Cas (...and Jimmy...) but I just needed a complete mental vacation for, like, an hour...
> 
> PS: I know much, much less about figure skating than I'm pretending to know in this fic. I was a big fan when I was a girl and a teen, but haven't watched any in close to 20 years. And I can ice skate but I can't do anything fancy at all. So sorry if you're "in the know" and you can tell I'm completely talking out my ass. I did my best...
> 
> PPS: ...there's a good chance the rating on this will change. I haven't yet decided how porny it will be. I'll give chapter warnings if things get smutty.

With a crackle of static, the music cut off abruptly and Bitty’s supporting leg trembled and almost went out from under him, but he flexed the knee slightly, shifted his weight to the inside of the blade and regained his momentum. The routine was so ingrained in his mind that he didn’t need the music to continue; straightening from his camel position, snagging the blade of his raised foot and pulling up into a Biellman, drawing a perfect arc with the inside edge of his skate.

_One…two…three…four…five…_

“When the music stops, you stop,” called a voice over the loudspeaker. It was a flagrant lie, and Bitty ignored it. If the music stopped in the middle of a performance, he would keep going no matter what.

_…six…seven…eight…_

As he hit the mental count of nine, he released his foot, held it extended up and over his head for a moment without any additional support, and then lowered his leg gracefully to the ice, lowered his arms to his sides with a flourish, and dropped into a sit spin, bringing his weight to center, converting his forward momentum into angular, letting his vision blur out so he wouldn’t grow dizzy as he kept his lips spread in a habitual wide smile.

“We need to clear the ice, Bittle…” George’s exasperated voice intruded once again on the weightless reverie of Bitty’s practice run through his artistic program for Nationals.

Laughing, dropping his arms, Bitty flopped onto his butt on the ice, still spinning in a slow circle. The cold, comforting and familiar, instantly soaked through the flimsy barrier of his tights and he flopped backwards and let the chill whisk away the heat of exertion.

“Waitin’ on you, Bits,” shouted Shitty from the walkway beside the rink. Shaking his head, Bitty got his hands under him, hopped effortlessly to his skates, and glided over the roughened ice to the opening in the retaining wall, beside which he’d left his blade guards. No sooner had he stepped off the ice than a Zamboni emerged from where it was stored at the far end of the rink, re-surfacing the ice. “Lookin’ good, my man,” Shitty added, coming up beside him.

“I’m not getting enough height on my triple Salchow,” Bitty fretted. “And I can’t seem to get the timing right on the Mohawk variations.”

“That’s ‘cause you keep starting on the off-beat,” said Shitty wisely. He wasn’t a great skater but he was a _fantastic_ choreographer, with a better ear for music than anyone else Bitty had ever worked with. If Shitty wasn’t intent on being a lawyer, Bitty would push him to work in the industry. As it is, they were all of them on the verge of aging out. Bitty’s mom swore up and down that when she was young, a figure skater could have a creditable amateur career at 20 years old, but these days, the general consensus was that Bitty was a has-been and Nationals belonged to the fifteen and sixteen year olds who had been doing quadruple axles since they were six.

_No. I can do this. I have to do this._

“Why’d George stop the music?” he asked, repressing his doubts and worries.

“Think she’s got someone for you to meet,” Shitty said wisely.

“And…?” As graceful as he was on the ice, Bitty felt ungainly walking over the rubber mats that lined the walkways of the arena. Once, he’d tripped along as blithely off ice as on, but that was a knee injury ago, and before he’d grown his last two inches.

“Hey, beats me,” Shitty shrugged. “I know nothing.” Bitty quirked a skeptical eyebrow at his friend. “Alright, I know everything, but when you hear it and rip someone’s head off, I don’t want it to be mine.”

“Well, _that’s_ reassuring,” snapped Bitty, his accent thickening as his nerves flared. “Bless your heart.” Trying to shake off the bad feeling tightening in his chest, he wiped sweat from his forehead with the front of the flowing white shirt he wore for practice.

“Uh oh.” Shitty put up his hands and backed away. “I know what _that_ tone means. I’m outta here. If you wanna talk later, you’ve got my digits.” Fleeing, Shitty walked rapidly away, turning his back and shooting a thumbs up over his shoulder as if _that_ would calm Bitty down. If the bastard wasn’t wearing shoes, if Bitty wasn’t in skates, he’d chase him down. As it was, he was tempted anyway.

_Well, there’s only one way to find out what’s going on, then…_

Wiping specks of half-melted ice off the butt of his black tights, Bitty made his way down the administrative hall to George’s office. She owned the arena, and was his coach, as well as the coach of several of the more promising students who trained there. The door was closed, and he debated knocking. He had only Shitty’s word that George wanted to see him. The last time Bitty had taken Shitty’s word on something like this, it had been after his disastrous trip to the Olympics, and had ended with Bitty getting drunk for the first time in his life, hitting on a luger who turned out to be aggressively straight, and almost getting deported from Russia.

Shaking away the memories, Bitty put his hand on the knob and pushed the door open.

“George, you know I need to…” He trailed off as he got a look in the room and realized that George wasn’t there. The room was small and tidy, the walls painted bright, fresh white and hung with awards and photographs in perfectly straight lines.

“Excuse me,” rumbled the room’s only occupant, a handsome, dark-haired man with a cut jaw line and eyes the color of fresh-laid ice. “Ms. Martin isn’t here at the moment.”

“Sorry,” Bitty stammered, unable to look away from those eyes. “I didn’t realize…” There was something familiar about the man, who Bitty thought might be a few years older than himself, but he couldn’t place it. It was difficult to place anything, distracted as he was by broad shoulders and a slim waist. “I didn’t mean to…” The man turned away from him, turned back to examining the wall of pictures. Surprised at being so summarily dismissed and ignored, Bitty’s lips twisted into a scowl, the expression that Shitty always told him looked more like a pout.

“Is this you in this picture?” asked the man abruptly. Clomping over awkwardly, skates uncooperative on the bare tile floor, Bitty glanced at what the stranger was looking at – himself, elated and bemused, clutching a bouquet of flowers so large that it enveloped his entire chest and holding up the bronze metal he’d won at Worlds in 2013. Lardo was at his side, kissing his cheek in her enthusiasm, and Shitty was behind him, holding up the “First Place Eater” ribbon he’d won by eating the most ribs at Boss Hogs.

“Yes,” Bitty said with what dignity he could muster. The man’s reaction was unreadable. He certainly didn’t look impressed. He didn’t look like a figure skater – he was too tall, too muscular, and he didn’t move like a dancer – so it was possible, likely even, that he had no idea what the medal meant.

_For one year, for two nights, I was the third best skater in the world._

_And then I fell._

The stranger made no further attempt at conversation, and Bitty felt increasingly awkward standing there, looking at a picture of himself and quelling bittersweet memories.

“Well, I guess I’d better—”

“Oh, Bittle.” Bitty turned to see George blocking the doorway, strands of brown hair peeking out from beneath the hood that framed her face, pushed into a funny shape atop her head by the bun she wore 24/7 as far as Bitty had ever seen. “Let me guess, Shitty spilled the beans?”

“He told me you wanted to talk to me,” said Bitty stiffly.

“Bless his heart,” she said mockingly with her Boston accent.

“Exactly what I said.”

“Well, I see you and Jack have already met. What do you think?” she asked.

“Jack?” asked Bitty, looking between the stranger and George.

“Jack Zimmerman,” clarified the man, offering his hand for Bitty to shake. His grip was firm and warm, a little too tight, and Bitty scowled again and stiffened his own grip in return.

_Doesn’t matter what a cutie you are, if you can’t behave…_

“Eric Bittle,” Bitty replied curtly. “What do I think about _what_ , George?”

“Skating with Jack.”

“No!”

Bitty’s mouth fell open to speak but the objection came from Jack.

“I told you, George, I don’t want to figure skate – I just want to get back into shape for hockey!”

“Hear me out,” she said, calm in the face of Bitty’s irritation and Jack’s chagrin. “Bitty, if you fail to qualify for nationals as a singles skater – Jack, if you fail to get that full ride at Samwell that your father is counting on – I think you’d skate well together, and it wouldn’t be too late to try to qualify for the 2017 nationals as a pair. So, what do you think?”

“Absolutely not,” snapped Bitty, folding his arms over his chest and turning his back on the hockey player.

“I _will_ play hockey,” Jack vowed.

George smiled at them, a secret, knowing smile, and Bitty’s stomach sank. He knew that look. George always got her way in the end.

**Author's Note:**

> ...so....what'd you think?
> 
> ...I feel like I've written Destiel so long I've forgotten how the fuck to write other characters, lol...


End file.
